


on the block

by mwestbelle



Category: Bandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Community: cliche_bingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-30
Updated: 2011-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:11:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mwestbelle/pseuds/mwestbelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Mikey had been born a freeman, he would have found standing on the block the most humiliating experience of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	on the block

**Author's Note:**

  * For [morphosyntactic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morphosyntactic/gifts).



> Written for cliche_bingo, prompt: auctions/slavefic
> 
> Warnings: Human slavery!
> 
> (Originally posted July 1, 2009)

Mikey never expected to find himself up on the block. He wasn't the best slave--not the hardest worker, or the most beautiful, or devoted in any way--but he was obedient. He did as he was told, and he did it quietly, and if his master never took a special liking to him, it was no real trouble to him. There were other slaves, without fiddly legs and poor eyes, who were more deserving and more wanting of attention. Mikey never cared much for attention. He was never really happy, but if he could ever be called happy, it would be when he was left alone to do whatever tasks had been set out for him.

The problem, he found, with being ignored, was that when the master suddenly sickened and died, the quiet slaves were the ones that had no provisions made for them in the master's wishes. Frank was being sent to one of the master's sons, and he kissed the backs of Mikey's hands with fierce tears in his eyes. "I will find you," he swore, and Mikey was grateful for the gesture even if he'd thought Frank had grown out of that phase. He knew better than to believe it. Frank had, years ago, when they were both too young to know better, sworn that he would find the brother that Mikey half-remembered having. There were some things that just couldn't be done.

When Mikey was sold last, it was a private deal between his former family and the master he lived the rest of his adolescence with. He didn't remember it well--it was hazy, vague like a dream that you tried to hard to recall. Like his maybe-brother--but he remembered enough to know it was nothing like this.

He had been penned in the marketplace for three days, and a few possible masters and mistresses had passed by him, peering in and pointing with bejeweled fingers. But he was too scrawny, not strong enough for field labor but not fine enough to be an addition to the household. Not worth the price. On the fourth day, two of the trader's men came into the pen and took him with a beefy hand under his armpits. He wanted to tell them that really, it wasn't necessary. He had never been a rebellious sort, not outside his mind and the whispered conversations he once had with Frank. He did his work, did what he was told, and stayed out of trouble.

If Mikey had been born a freeman, he would have found standing on the block the most humiliating experience of his life. But Mikey was slave stock, and he was long used to indignities. It didn't occur to him to be embarrassed, twisted and paraded and prodded in front of the milling marketplace while the auctioneer reeled off his attributes. _Clever_ was what they called him. Strength and beauty were the preferred selling points; cleverness was a tricky one. Clever slaves were useful, but they were dangerous. Many masters preferred their slaves as stupid as they could find or make them. Trying to sell Mikey based on his cleverness was a gamble, especially when, standing up and squinting vaguely at the crowd, he certainly didn't look like much at all.

Still, bids went up, and when the men came back to pull him off the block and push another slave into the spotlight, they did not take him back to the trader's pens. Instead, they led him back towards the trader's own caravan, the bright wagon where he lived and conducted business. There was a man standing next to it, short and tan with dark hair. Mikey couldn't make out much else until they got closer, but the man was swathed in a cloak that was a particularly lurid shade of green.

Closer, Mikey could see that he was also wearing yellow shoes, and his smile was huge and toothy. The trader's men stopped and let go of Mikey's arms, and he stumbled forward with the inertia. The man reached forward and lay a hand on his shoulder to steady him, still smiling. "Hey there. I'm--"

"Citizen Wentz!" The trader's voice boomed, and he was sweaty when he emerged from the caravan, swabbing at his face with a handkerchief. "I had no idea that you would...that you were...I would have set up a private showing for you, had I only known!"

"Don't worry about it." Wentz squeezed Mikey's shoulder. "I found what I wanted."

The trader sneered, lip drawing up to reveal the stain of wine on his teeth. "This? Please, Citizen, I have many, many more slaves in my stables. Much more pleasing ones, and talented too. You needn't settle for the leavings of auction."

Wentz's hand tightened on Mikey's shoulder and his smile got bigger, but far less pleasant. "I found what I wanted. And as soon as you give me his key, I'll be going."

The trader looked like he was considering offering again, trying to upsell an obviously rich man to one of his better slaves, but his shoulders slumped and he fished inside his cloak to draw out the big iron ring that jangled with all his keys. He flipped through them before finding Mikey's: small and silver, well made but hopelessly tarnished. He held it between thumb and forefinger as though disgusted, and dropped it into Wentz's palm. "I hope you enjoy your purchase. I am always pleased to share my wares with an upstanding Citizen like yourself."

Wentz closed his hand around the key and turned on his heel, dropping his hand to hold onto the short length of chain that dangled between Mikey's wrist to guide him along after. "Yeah, thanks."

Mikey wasn't sure what he expected, but when they reached a cab waiting, Wentz climbed in, then pulled Mikey in after him. He'd never ridden in a cab before; his master had never had need for him to leave and the trader didn't transport his slaves in such a manner.

He was inspecting the window as best he could without moving when there was the click, loud and obvious, of his cuffs being undone. He looked back at Wentz, who pulled them off and tossed them onto the seat on the other side of the cab and grinned at him. "Much better, right? I could never stand those things." Mikey stared and Wentz laughed. "I'm Pete. What's your name?"

Mikey blinked. It was a strange question, even from a man who seemed to expect his slave to have any use for his first name. "Whatever you want, master."

Pete made a face and cocked his head, looking at Mikey. "Yeah, you see, I'm shit with names. Serious shit. I only have like, two good ones, and I already gave them to my dogs. So it would be a lot easier if you would just name yourself for me."

Mikey knew better than to be charmed. He had met other Citizens when his master held parties, put away their horses and shined their carriages, and no matter how charismatic they were, there wasn't a single one who would hesitate to beat him if he'd done a poor job. Or if they were drunk, or if they hadn't liked what his master had to say. He still ducked his head. "Mikey."

"Nice to meet you." Pete shifted, sliding down to prop his feet up next to Mikey's cuffs and chain.

Mikey didn't know how to respond to that, so he said nothing. They traveled from the market through the rest of the business sector, to the west side of the city, where the rich lived. Mikey had no idea what a man, a _Citizen_ , who was obviously as wealthy and influential as Pete was doing, buying a slave at auction like anyone might.

But Pete was obviously a man of strange ideas and behaviors, as he led Mikey, unchained, right to the front door of his home. A house this big should have been crawling with slaves, but the big entrance hall was empty. Pete headed down a hall and Mikey follows him, as close as possible so as not to lose sight of him in quick turns.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Pete stopped and Mikey almost ran into him, but he stumbled back in time. A small, but remarkably irritated, man appeared from one of the doorways, glaring.

"I went shopping," Pete said with a grin. "This is Mikey. Mikey, this is Patrick."

Patrick was not obviously a slave. He was dressed neatly, with a hat covering his hair that was far too fashionable for a slave to be wearing, and the way he had spoken to Pete would have put Mikey in the cellar at best. But there were faint marks around his wrists, almost gone, but enough to whisper that he had been kept chained for long period of time in the past. He shook his head. "Great. Ashlee was here, you know. For three hours. She got tired of waiting for you."

"She wasn't waiting for me. She just wanted to try to seduce my favorite girl out from under my very nose." Pete glanced over at Mikey. "Miss Simpson is my betrothed. She spends an inordinate amount of time mooning over my piano tutor."

Patrick looked slightly mollified, but still annoyed. "Not that you ever attend lessons. I don't know why you even bother."

"Miss Greta is a favorite of mine, and her skills are admirable. I just have little hope they'll transfer to me." Pete rolled his shoulders and looked over Patrick's shoulder. "I'm going to take Mikey upstairs, get him settled."

Patrick sighed. "I'll send Citizen Simpson your sincere apology and regrets."

"You do that," Pete grinned. He kept walking and Mikey tried not to stare at anything when he followed after him. It was all so strange, so different, and he didn't know what was expected of him any longer. He hated that.

Pete led him upstairs, to a clean bedroom. It seemed massive to him, though compared to the rest of the house, it must have actually been fairly small. The bed was neatly made, and Pete sat down on it, grinning at Mikey. "Do you like it?"

"I." Mikey wasn't sure what Pete meant by that, but he did know what the master on the bed meant. His old master had seldom required his services here; he preferred women, although Frank had been called more than once, and Mikey...Mikey was not much talented in the erotic arts. Still, he came to kneel on the floor in front of Pete. "It's nice."

Pete leaned forward and cupped Mikey's chin in his hand. Mikey looked up at him and Pete looked almost sad. "It's yours."

"What?"

"This." Pete frowned and pressed his thumb in under Mikey's ear, at the curve of his jaw. "The room. Whatever. It's yours." Mikey tilted his head into Pete's hand--it felt like the right thing to do--but Pete tugged his hand away. "I can't...I can't pay you. You know. But if there's anything you want, just tell me. Whatever it is."

He got up and slid away from Mikey. He stopped at the door and looked over his shoulder with a smile. "Come find me when you're ready, okay?"

Mikey nodded, but he didn't understand. He didn't understand for a long time. Not until the night that he found out that he had a brother. He had no idea how Pete could have possibly found it out--slaves didn't have birth records, names changed so many times they were impossible to track, and he'd only mentioned it because Pete was so _interested_ in hearing about his life. He'd convinced himself that it was all imagined, but now. Pete had _found_ him. Pete had found him and paid (through the nose, Mikey was sure) for him, and he was coming here. Mikey was going to meet the few snatches of warm feelings, the only happiness he could remember from his youth. Then he understood.

Pete was writing, as usual, curled up on the windowseat with his toes pressed against the edge and a sheaf of papers on his knee. He looked up when Mikey came in and grinned. "Hey Mikeyway." (It was a joke, between them, born out of Patrick's annoyed "Mikey goes everywhich way")

Mikey kept walking forward and didn't slow down until Pete's lips were spread, still smiling, against his. He'd dabbled, yes, in his time at Pete's, but he was still relatively new to this. But when Pete pulled back, it was like the stars had come out.

"I'm ready," Mikey said, though it was clear enough.

Pete looked at him with those starry eyes and snorted. "Finally."


End file.
